


St. Patrick's Day

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Slash, Smut, St. Patrick's Day, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cast party + spin the bottle = surprise Pinto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	St. Patrick's Day

**Title:** St. Patrick's Day  
 **Author:** **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** Pairing: Zach/Chris  
 **Author's Notes:** Cast party + spin the bottle = surprise Pinto.

 

"I'm glad we did this, you guys," J.J. is saying.

"I'm glad there's alcohol," John adds.

"I'm glad we did this after the movie wrapped so you can't fire us for all of this disorderly conduct," Zach says. "Or just Chris. Whatever."

Chris hits him. "Fuck you. Here, drink. This." He's wobbly as he leans over to hand Zach his half-full wine glass.

"Drink this or hold this?"

"You know the thing," Chris says vaguely, digging his phone out of his pocket with extreme difficulty in order to gawp at it. In his defense, those jeans are pretty damn tight. "I don't want it. Too grapey."

"Oh, dear God . . ." John says.

"Do you want a beer instead, Chris?" J.J. asks, because he's a considerate host like that. "Chris?"

"Chris," Zach says, and Chris jumps out of his reverie to stare at him instead.

"I . . . forgot why I wanted to look at my phone." Frowns.

Zach sighs and snatches it away from him. "So you could give it to me and keep yourself _off_ of Texts From Last Night."

"Huh?"

John laughs. "Oh come on, Chris. Even _I_ know what that is."

"I don't know or care. I've read _Ulysses_." He says it with such conviction, like it makes sense. Zach laughs and takes a sip of Chris's abandoned wine, puts it in the middle of the table where there's shot glasses hanging out.

"Where's Karl?" Chris whines, slumping in his spot on the couch between John and Zach. John shoots him a look over the top of Chris's head—alcohol turns Chris whiny and affectionate, and apparently it's Zach's turn to deal with it. John's just gonna point and laugh.

"In the kitchen with everyone else," Zach tells him, voice low in an effort to keep Chris's volume down. 

It doesn't work: "Oh my God, Zach, you did _not_ seriously wear green _socks_ , too . . ." Chris is just noticing this _now?_

But Zach's assured of his coolness. "It's St. Patrick's Day, Chris. That's kind of the whole thing. Duh."

"Any excuse to wear those shoes . . ." Chris mumbles. Pot, kettle, black, much?

"I'm allowed," Zach says over him. "I'm Irish. So you can suck it."

Chris is sort of rolling around on Zach's shoulder now, closing his eyes and squirming like a little kid at a restaurant. "We've been over this, Zach. You can't dress yourself because of Catholic school. It's a widespread condition, and it's nothing to be ashamed of . . . "

Zach opens his mouth—

The doorbell rings and J.J. launches himself off the couch across from them.

"But seriously," John says, in an aside. "It's a good thing he didn't throw a party before he cast us."

Chris shoves his discarded wineglass in Zach's face. "Driiink it."

"You didn't tell me I had to drink it," Zach says, does so anyway.

"Come on, Zach," John eggs. "Be a good friend and get as embarrassingly drunk as your counterpart." 

"We're not 'counterparts', Cho."

Chris paws at him. "Hey, what do you mean, you mean, are you saying that I'm not the Batman to your Robin?"

"The Robin to my Batman," Zach corrects. "Not really, no."

"No, fuck you, you're totally the Robin in this scenario, man." 

"Um, no. When was the last time you heard me say anything even close to 'gee whiz', Chris?"

"Oh, don't let him fool you, I heard him say 'gee whiz' not two days ago," J.J. says, back in the circle all of the sudden, perpetually bouncy, Greg Grunberg in tow. 

Greg's deep in thought. "Zach has definitely said 'gee whiz'," he says, pats Zach's shoulder on his way over to an empty chair. "Right buddy?"

Zach lets his head thunk against the back of the couch. "Oh my _God_ how are we still talking about this . . ."

"You're cute when you're pissed off," Chris explains.

"It's true," John chimes in, smiles sweetly at him.

"I hate you all. And I hate this wine, Chris, so why don't you stop—"

Greg snorts. "Stop being such a pussy and just chug it, Zach."

"One does not _chug_ red—"

Chris pushes the glass against Zach's face until it's all smudged and blocking Zach's airways and he gives in and downs the whole glass because everyone wants to have a damn freshmen frat party.

"Wonderful!" Chris says, over-enthused. "Get him a refill, Johnny-boy," he says over his shoulder, and John scurries off with the glass. Devious little sidekick. Zach sighs.

"So," Greg says, raising an eyebrow at Zach for the way Chris is still squished up against him in light of the lack of Cho. Zach responds with a _shut the fuck up_ eye roll. "You guys as obsessive compulsively worried about the premiere as J.J.?"

J.J. sputters, "I'm not—"

"You are."

"You _seriously_ are," Zach adds.

J.J. shrugs and laughs before staring Zach down and pointing. "You're fired."

"Aw man," Zach says, "does this mean I can come back for the next season of _Celebrity_ Apprentice now that I'm in the company of Elisabeth Hasselbeck and Melissa what's-her-name?"

Greg's got this pained expression. "Dude."

Chris sighs. "Just. You should _not_ know so much about reality TV. Or The View. Or The Bachelor. Dancing With The Stars I can let slide, 'cause, you know, I know how much you wanna wear the pretty pretty dresses and dance with _Maks_ . . ." Zach pushes him until he flops away to half-lie over the couch. "Ow."

"I mean." Zach waits for the snickering to subside—he's going for serious here: "I mean, obviously this is gonna be a big deal because J.J. and the cast and the crew are all so amazing, the movie itself will—"

Chris is still giggling. "Save it for the junket, man. Come on, I'm gonna have to listen to you blathering on about how _amazing_ myself and, I don't know, the rest of these losers are for all eternity, so the least you could do is cool it while I'm trying to have a good time . . ."

"You live for people telling you how amazing you are, Chris, but _that_ aside—"

"Come on, Zach, don't hate me because I'm beautiful _and_ can drink you under the table," Chris slurs. Zach has to pinch his nose to hold back a stream of laughter. "And anyway, you take waxing poetic to the next level . . ."

Greg's frowning over on the other side of the coffee table, turns to J.J. "I can't tell if they're fighting or just being guys."

"I think flirting might be a more correct interpretation," John interjects, returning with Karl and the rest from the kitchen along with that fresh glass of wine. "Here, Zach. Bottoms up."

"That's what she said," Chris mumbles. Zach hits him again.

Karl surveys the room and nods. "Yeah, flirting." He pulls up a chair while Zach takes a healthy gulp of his drink, just because he can _unquestionably_ drink Chris under the any damn table.

"I'm not _worried_ , Greg," J.J. is saying. "I just know it's gonna be big no matter what happens merely by virtue of the franchise, and it's hard to gauge how well received it will be by new audiences as well as Trekkies."

"Trekkers," Zach says, knee-jerk reaction. Chris snorts, shuffling over to make room for John again and making Zach take another drink while he's at it.

Greg pats J.J.'s arm. "No worries—the premiere's a month away. You've got plenty of time to come up with a less pessimistic tagline."

"I don't know," comes a contemplative, British-y voice. Zach blinks Dom into focus—totally forgot he was here and wonders briefly just how well he can actually hold this liquor as opposed to how well he thinks he can based on past drunken evaluation. Chris brings the glass up to Zach's lips and tips it until Zach has to drink or ruin his shirt. Dom's still talking: "It's all what you make of it, I think. However the paparazzi are absolutely impossible to get used to."

"It's fun to fuck with them, sometimes," John says.

"It still freaks me out," Greg says.

"And I only want a brain," Chris sighs. Zach can trace the outline of his wayward train of thought—something like: Lord of the Rings was big this is big I don't care which way it goes because it means less romantic comedies and more roles where I get to actually act.

They whine for the next couple of rounds about their lives. Like group therapy. Like successful, entitled group therapy with 'world premiere' and 'multi-million' as part of the vocabulary.

But Zach _is_ worried. For the others it's different: J.J. is a god, Karl can do whatever, John doesn't care, Anton is young, Bruce is immortal, and Zoë is Zoë. For him and Chris, the movie's either gonna give them enough momentum to stop settling or it's gonna seal their fate as second rate actors. Not that Zach is complaining—it's just that he feels like he's on the same page as Chris. Same frustrations, same daydreams, same affinity for wonderfully atrocious hats.

Chris is smiling at him. His hair is fuzzy-short, a look that suits him surprisingly well.

Zach starts to wonder about where they're gonna be on St. Patrick's Day a year from now—he's thinking about job offers, friendship, success, notoriety, geography, Chris's laugh. Chris is laughing and Zach smiles and realizes he's drunk enough to flail on the couch with him and stop listening to the grown ups' conversation.

So yeah, Zach might be a little drunk now—that look that John's giving him is a pretty good indication 'cause he's giving the same look to Chris. "How you doing over there, Zach?"

Zach breathes in deeply to clear his head. "I smell like roses," he declares.

Chris wrinkles his nose. "You smell like dog," he says.

Zach raises his eyebrows. "Oh yeah? Well, _you_ smell like Abercrombie  & Fitch."

"Okay, take that back. Immediately."

Karl leans over to sniff Chris. "Aw, no he doesn't, Zach. Don't be mean. He just looks like an Abercrombie & Fitch _model_ , you see."

Zach blinks at Dom's raised eyebrows. "And here I thought _our_ lot were all too affectionate, Karl," Dom says.

"These two?" Karl says. "A thousand times more in love than you and the rest of the hobbitpile."

John waggles his eyebrows and Chris drapes himself more emphatically over Zach, which isn't helping Zach play off his sudden blush as merely a result of the wine.

"Just because they're costars who don't actively hate one another doesn't mean they're shagging," Dom points out.

People laugh, but Zach catches J.J.'s knowing little smile and sees him whisper to Greg and sees Greg give him a discreet little thumbs up. Zach groans. "I'm not fucking Chris," he announces, loud to get above the group of giggling grown men and it seems to echo. "Fuck, I didn't mean to say fuck so many—oh, fuck . . ."

Zach can feel Chris's silent laughter.

After a couple more rounds, after the rest of them are approximately as many sheets to the wind as he and Chris, someone dumb like John Cho or J.J. the Deceiver suggest a game of spin the bottle.

"Oh, come on, we've gotta play," John is saying. "What kind, what kinda teenage sleeper-over would this be if we didn't?"

Zach clears his throat. "'S not, like. Appropriate for St. Patrick's Day."

"The fuck not?" someone wants to know.

"'Cause, you know," Zach says. "'Cause I know about this shit 'cause you know I'm like Irish. You . . . you _fuckers_."

Chris dismisses it with a wave. "Fuckin' . . . no, man, it doesn't count. Half-and-half isn't fuckin' Irish cream, man." He laughs to himself, probably thinking of some way to twist that into a dirty joke, but he's too drunk to think it through. "Calling you Irish is like calling John Korea . . . ish. It doesn't count."

John _hm_ 's. "'M not sure if that was s'posed to be offensive or not . . ."

"Doesn't count," Chris repeats. "Anyway, come on, St. Patrick's Day isn't like a real drinking holiday."

Zach sputters.

"Like, fuckin', Cinco de Mayo and shit. That's some—that's the shit, man."

"Who gives a fuck about Cinco de Mayo? What even _happened_ on Cinco de Mayo?"

"I don't know but I plan on celebrating the fuck out of it."

Karl jumps in. "Well, Chris, I'd not party _too_ hard what with all the premieres and—"

"Doesn't matter," Zach interrupts. "What I'm saying. Like. Spin the bobble—the bottle. Lame. You guys just, just really need to get laid. You're all lame and horny."

" _Guys_ are lame and horny," Greg says. "And anyway, J.J. needs to explore his sexuality, right Jeffy?"

Zach watches everyone turn on them with raised eyebrows and snort-giggles.

John is busy setting everything up, and Zach is busy blinking dizziness out of his eyes. He's mildly aware that the first spin lands on Chris and Chris says something lewd and corny as a result. His attention wanders—he gropes for a glass of something and takes a sip—

"Hey, Zach. Zach. Hey, put that down, man. Zach." Chris's sweaty fingers prying it away and turning Zach to face him. Zach smiles at the way Chris is smiling at him until his mouth descends—not really a kiss, just a smear of Chris's winey plushy mouth across his own and catcalls from the peanut gallery.

"Oh," Zach says. The bottle had landed on him. He's too numb to reality to really get what's going on.

The others continue playing while Chris says to him: "Was it everything you dreamed it would be?" and bats his eyelashes in a girly way that's disturbingly effective. "A spoon full of sugar from your dream man?"

"No, no. No. My dream man is, like, Ted Mosby, 'cause—"

"Ted Mosby: Architect?"

"—'cause, you know, like—"

"A mix between Johnny Depp and Jimmy Fallon with better hair than you?"

"Fuck you. He's adorably pretentious and kind of a douche—no, don't flatter yourself, you're not adorable about it, Chris."

Chris smiles, and it's then that it hits Zach—he kissed that. Kissed him. Kissed _Chris_. He's owned the wine-stained seam of his lips and tasted the canine canines and felt the vibration of Chris's amused little sound all the way down to his gut. Zach looks at Chris's eyes and the buttons on his shirt and his groin and his hands and realizes that he should want, that he could want, that he can see what to do so easily and it's dangerous how simple it feels to simply feel Chris—

The bottle lands on Zach again, and he takes a break from smelling Chris's smell and basking in his heat to lay a wet one on Greg. Dom kisses J.J. and J.J. kisses Greg in a way that even intoxicated!Zach can tell is rehearsed or like riding a bike or something. The bottle misses him and points at Chris and Zach will go crazy if he doesn't get the chance to redeem his lackluster performance _before_ it's someone else's turn to taste the alcohol on Chris's oh my God, so ridiculously delicious mouth . . .

John is puckering up when Zach turns Chris back around to face him instead.

"Kiss _me_ ," Zach insists. "I'm Irish."

Chris shrugs like it make sense, arms draping around his neck eagerly and Zach can really feel it when they crash together this time. Really taste and really want and really wonder. Chris moans and lets Zach's tongue into his mouth and licks along it, hot and squirming on the couch—someone says _God damn_ in the background—Zach wants it to be just the two of them for every round thereafter.

Chris finally pulls back, lashy eyes and thick breath and so close.

Zach's caught.

*

The grocery store is pretentiously organic, which is something that Zach generally values in a grocery store, but there are some times when he just wants it to be a huge-ass Giant Eagle with grimy floors and a lack of interior design, and then he can rent The Great Mouse Detective at the video place by the register afterwards and wrestle with his brother in the car . . .

He picks up a recyclable bag of natural crap and tries to figure out the difference between this one and the one with soy—

 _Zzzzzzz zzz._ Zach Q., cell.

>   
>  I really hope you still have my phone

>   
>  **apparently. good to know you haven't destroyed mine. yet.**   
> 

> Hey how's that hangover treating you

> **am not stupid. drank water and, what's more, i CAN hold my liquor better than you.**  
> 

> My head is killing me

>   
>  **thanks for sharing. idiot.**   
> 

> You're so hurtful D:

> **don't be a girl.**  
> 

> I'll be whatever you want me to be baby

>   
>  **you're an idiot.**   
> 

> That's not what you said last night

>   
>  **no, i'm actually pretty sure i did.**   
> 

> Oh Zachary! Don't toy with my affections  
> 

Zach does self-checkout in order to be less of a text-happy douche to the register people. Whenever the phone buzzes it spins and threatens to fall to the floor.

>   
> Spock is sexy

>   
>  **let me see if i can follow this train of thought: i was Spock that one time, Spock would totally kiss you and then never speak of it again, you're bored and trying to be random and entertaining so i'll keep texting you.**   
> 

> Lol you know me too well. What am I gonna say next

>   
>  **i'm guessing something along the lines of soliciting me for another inebriated smooch.**   
> 

> Indeed the softness of your lips haunts my dreams  
> 

Zach snorts, puts Chris's phone in the drink carrier in his car and pulls out of the lot.

He parks down the block from the drugstore and checks the phone again, is surprised to have only one additional text instead of an onslaught of whiny _Are you there? Did you die? Hellooooooooo?_

>   
>  Kirk is just a cutie pie

>   
>  **maybe kirk is, but "cutie pie" isn't exactly what comes to mind when i think of you, if that's what you're driving at.**   
> 

> I don't know I'd hit that

>   
>  **you'd hit yourself?**   
> 

> Yeah cause I'm kinky like that  
> 

Zach can't tell if they're flirting or just being guys. Chris has this weird, roundabout way of articulating everything, and—

>   
> Hey what are you doing anyway

>   
>  **responding to your texts because you're apparently unable to find any other, more meaningful human contact.**   
> 

> But you're my BFF

>   
>  **um, sure.**   
> 

> Hey do you wanna hang out after you're done buying stuff to wax your eyebrows with under the huge easy breezy beautiful cover girl display  
> 

Zach freezes.

>   
>  **are you paying the paparazzi to tail me now?**   
> 

> Nah I just know you too well. Idiot. Like the paparazzi give a shit about your grooming habits

>   
>  **apparently you do.**   
> 

> So what time?  
> 

Zach does want to hang out, but he feels like he's gotta be roundabout like Chris or else he's giving in or exposing himself or something. He's standing in the makeup isle with people giving him odd looks as he thinks too hard about the collection of letters he's typing fumbingly on Chris's tiny-as-fuck keyboard.

>   
>  **don't you have a line out the door of people willing to pay attention to you?**   
> 

> But I want you to pay attention to me

>   
>  **ok seriously are you freaked out because of last night or something? we're friends, idiot.**   
> 

> Kissing cousins, as it were

>   
>  **how does that make any sense whatsoever?**   
> 

> We're gonna pick up where we left off right

>   
>  **i'm starting to think you're texting the wrong person by accident. which would be truly sad considering you're essentially texting yourself.**   
> 

> It's just that I'm pining for your touch  
> 

It's too broad for Chris _not_ to be joking.

>   
>  **FINE. come over in an hour and we'll braid each other's hair and play truth or dare and bloody mary.**   
> 

> And seven minutes in heaven, hosted by the talented Zachary Quinto

>   
>  **you honestly worry me sometimes.**   
> 

> Lol  
> 

_Zzzzzzz zzz_ while Zach's driving. He glances at the new text at a red light.

> I know we're friends  
> 

*

Zach sits on his couch and feels like he's not in his own house, can't understand how to put away the groceries and just stares at the reusable bags on the coffee table and stares at Chris's phone (practically an extension of his body) and relishes the knot in his stomach.

Years later the doorbell rings and Noah twitches in his sleep. It's afternoon and lazy, and the world feels so still that Zach's every nerve seems to vibrate to make up for it. Good, clean anticipation.

He opens the door to Chris and has trouble looking him in the eye, mumbles a _Hey, come on in_ and lets him hey come on in. Chris smells like sunscreen and wears a clingy white t-shirt. Looks stubbly and bubbly and reckless around the eyes.

"I don't wanna be friends," Chris says after a minute of smiling nervously at one another.

 _Bad_ fucking romance, Zach knows, but—

Chris's yanking him close by the front of his shirt, brush of his fingers making Zach's skin crackle with excitement and Zach's dazzled by Chris's wide eyes as he gives up and kisses him like he's wanted to all day. _Wants_ Chris like this . . .

Chris's ensuing moan makes it doubly impossible for Zach to think correctly, and soon he's touching the fabric of Chris's clothes to compare with the rough smooth heat of his skin, strained sexy muscle of Chris's arm filling Zach's palm. 

Chris pushes until Zach's back hits a wall, the molding digging painfully into Zach's spine while Chris's tongue invades his mouth and Zach can only suck and shiver and smell him—SPF shouldn't work as an aphrodisiac, but Chris can make mostly anything work with enviable ease. Zach's overwhelmed, makes a frantic-sounding noise and it's an effort to come up for air, their mouths as magnetized as they are.

"Come on, Zach," Chris says, low and echoey, "I've wanted you for forever. Don't—"

"You . . . really?"

His fingers drag obsessively through Zach's hair. "I don't want you, except, because I _want_ you."

"Thought it was 'love'. Or, more accurately, 'amor'."

Chris doesn’t laugh, is gonna kiss him again. "That too." And Chris doesn’t just kiss him, he launches an elaborate offensive play against him—hands big and roaming while he makes Zach's head immobile with the force of his undulating kisses and matching undulating hips, getting hard for him, fuck . . .

Zach finds a way to trail his mouth away, over Chris's delectable jaw which is scratchy and male, kisses his neck wherever it tempts him and over the terribly thin material of Chris's shirt. Chris squirms nicely when Zach locates a nipple and flicks his tongue, delicate, twists Chris's arms and uses his belt loops to reverse their positions. Chris's head thunks back against the wall when Zach falls to his knees, making quick work of Chris's fly.

Zach starts by mouthing ineffectively over Chris's cock, preoccupied with watching Chris's clenching and unclenching hands, stiff at his sides with the effort and Zach laughs, sending hot breath over Chris's sensitized skin and Chris whimpers, just a little. Zach feels electric with the sound, the desperation, the smell of sex, takes the head of Chris's cock into his mouth softly and waits for Chris to—

"Uhhhh, please . . ." Chris pants.

"Mm?"

" _Shit_ ," Chris says, voice tight, attempting to lean in and lean away simultaneously. "Zach . . ."

"Mmmmm?"

" _Ah_ shit, please, just, suck, _ah_ Zach—"

Zach pulls off of Chris's cock before taking him deeper, slow but suckingly hard and Chris's hands scrabble ever more desperately against the wall. Zach almost wishes he'd just burry them in his hair and hold him down and have done. Wants Chris to want him this badly. Sucks him with lessening pressure on the upstroke before exploring the head of Chris's cock with his tongue, bursts of taste and Chris's drawn-out groan from above, licks and swirls and sucks while tightening his fingers around the base and lightly tracing his balls.

"Fuck," Chris is whispering. " _Fuck_ , you look so good."

Zach glances up at him, straining his eyes a little but it's worth it for the naked turquoise look he gets in return. Lets Chris's cock fall heavily out of his mouth with a pop and watches Chris's pupils dilate.

Chris pulls him to his feet before Zach can catch his breath, kisses him messily.

"Bed?" Chris wants to know.

"Ngk." Zach clears his throat, intoxicated by Chris's taste. "I mean, yeah."

Chris laughs and goes coquettish, backs up down the hallway and pulls Zach along by the hem of his shirt. They collide by the bathroom door and Chris's breath catches. Zach kisses him for it, has to close his eyes when Chris starts unbuttoning Zach's shirt and sucking at his skin with his voice vibrating approval. Zach gets him to stop by reaching down to close his hand around Chris's cock though his half open fly, bites at Chris's parted lips and watches his eyelids flicker up close. Chris rolls his hips and bites back, finds enough space between their vague, airy kisses to speak just for him:

" _Bed_. God. Want you to fuck me."

It might be that Zach usually bottoms, but no part of him seems to remember this in wake of Chris and Chris's eyes begging so beautifully.

It's like they come to some silent mutual agreement, stop playing and get the fuck into Zach's bedroom as quickly as possible, clothes coming off with the dull thud of a belt to the floor and Chris having severe issues with his godawful shoes (they're neon red, somehow), tripping over himself to get the final sock free of his foot.

Zach sneaks up behind him at the nightstand and kisses his neck, nose in Chris's short sweaty hair and hands drinking in the feel of his chest and strong thighs, ticklish light brush up the fine hairs trailing down from his bellybutton. Chris melts a little before focusing to rummage around in the drawer.

"Where's—?"

"Oh." Zach's arm snakes around him to drag a carved wooden box on the table within reach. "All the necessary materials are in here."

Chris snickers and holds it up. "You keep condoms in a half-assed accent piece from Ikea?"

"It's got a Celtic knot . . . thing!" Zach defends. 

He can feel Chris shaking with laughter.

"Shut up! It sits well with the feng shui of the room, it's like—oh my God shut _up_ , Chris!"

Chris spins in his arms and waves a condom in Zach's face, continued giggles making his eyes crinkle and his smile endearing. Zach's mouth twitches and he snatches the condom before knocking Chris off balance and onto the bed, gets on top of him and bites at his neck until the laughter modulates into happy little growls.

Zach digs a jar of lube out of the abandoned box on the nightstand, pants against Chris's neck at the feel of his cock digging into Zach's thigh and eases a finger into him. Chris can't seem to stop moving, arcing his hips, toes curling and arm muscles flexing from his death grip on the pillow over his head. Zach grinds down into him, mouths up to Chris's mouth and lets their tongues battle.

Chris's impossibly flushed face a little ridiculous, but it's Chris and—God, it's just that it makes his eyes so brilliant and the fact that Zach's currently finger-fucking him to make it happen. Zach licks a trickle of sweat away from Chris's temple before finding his mouth again, moaning in sync with him as he adds another finger. Chris's head lolls to the side, breaking the kiss wetly, his eyes squeezing shut with Zach's slow thrusts.

"Like that?" Zach asks the skin of Chris's neck, bites and sucks up salt. He fucks into him more sharply and Chris's voice breaks on Zach's name.

Zach takes that as a yes, gets the condom on with stuttering fingers and Chris laughs at him a little, shimmies down the bed and hooks his legs helpfully around Zach, wildly eager in a way that makes Zach feel ravenous. Zach kisses Chris's knee and rearranges them until his cock is pressing at Chris's entrance—Chris's eyes go glassy, staring dazedly into the middle distance as Zach sinks inside of him.

Zach watches himself sliding into Chris, disappearing, so fucking hot, runs his fingertips over the vein on the underside of Chris's cock and eats up Chris's gasp, hitches them farther up on the bed and thrusts into him deep.

Chris goes crazy with it. "Za . . . Za- _uh_ , _Zach_ . . ." Twines his legs around Zach's waist and speaks only in syllables from then on.

Zach's fucking him _so_ hard, got to, dizzy with the heat of it and before long the world starts to blur into white sheets, white skin, white heat. Chris's hands scrabble at Zach's back, streaks of red pain and Zach reaches for Chris's cock to coax his cries into a crescendo, desperate gasps and shuddering flesh beneath him, around him—Chris spills hotly into Zach's hand and Zach follows him with a groan.

One sticky, sated bout of kissing later, Chris won't let Zach escape or clean up, just dozes warmly against him and murmurs, "Think we'll survive the fame?"

Zach laughs weakly. "Um, yeah?"

"No, I mean." Chris shifts to get more comfortable and Zach takes the opportunity to tighten his arm around him. "Do you think _we'll_ survive?"

"Nothing's gonna change."

*

"Remember last St Patrick's Day?" Chris asks, out of the blue when they're on the L train.

"Very clearly." The train's mostly empty, so Zach weaves his fingers through Chris's and feels him smile. "What, do you want an anniversary present or something? The concert wasn't enough for you?"

Chris sighs. "Is it so much to ask for a little romance?"

" _You and me could write a bad romance_ . . ."

"What did we say about Lady Gaga in the bedroom, Zach?"

Zach shrugs. "This is hardly the bedroom."

The next couple of stops pass in silence. Chris has an early flight tomorrow and Zach should be worried about the two of them.

"Nothing's gonna change," Chris says, as if reading his thoughts. He really believes it though—they've outrun the fame monster thusfar.

Zach kisses him on the subway train.

*


End file.
